


Cogs in the Machine

by cattesaber



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Alcohol, Character Study, Gen, Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24412105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattesaber/pseuds/cattesaber
Summary: Just a ordinary night, nothing special.Some time for Colin to think.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Cogs in the Machine

**Author's Note:**

> I'm feeling my way though characters. This is just a character study, basically.

The water outside reflected the flickers of light sent upon it, the moon high in the sky, the lights of the Rig always on. Colin tapped a pen against his desk to the beat of his heart on the bio monitor. This was not sleeping, it wasn’t even resting, but breaking his schedule like this was useful - wondering why he couldn’t sleep yet again at 3am was not. 

Half-discarded designs littered the table, all of them containing errors big enough to reject them, but he didn’t. He should have been itching to put them in a pile to look through later, when he was awake enough that listening to PR’s rules on what were acceptable weapons seemed like the best option. Even the PRT seemed to forget how rules like that only made his - _their_ \- jobs harder. As his leg ached deeply and he rubbed it with one hand, he didn’t justify the rules to himself again. 

How many capes had died because of the rules? Not even the major rules, just ones that the PRT had chained themselves to, as villains did the opposite and grew stronger. It would have been easy to waste his time on being bitter again, as he could change his emotions as much as the PRT could change: that is with great difficulty, reluctance, and often blood spilt in the background.

Colin eyed the design of a quickly drawn chemical equation, handwriting noticeably worse on the right side of the page he had done later in the night. Or maybe early morning. It was useful enough, he supposed. Meant for one cape only and likely had too much risk to use everywhere else. Hours making it could be useless, wasted, if it didn’t work. But Dragon would quite like the idea, he was sure. More tweaking and it would almost be completely safe and do its job.

Dragon had always preferred actions that would mean even villains would get more than fair treatment, baby gloves. At his worst, he was sure it was because she had forgotten how cruel people were, unable to leave her cage that kept her from the facts. No one else could do that. 

(And that wasn’t true, not really. His worst was when he was too caught up in thinking and had thought for a moment _what if he could fix her._ Go to her in her lair, see how she really looked, no more simulation - were her eyes really that bright? Then pick her up and carry her outside, even if she protested and fought, making her deal her agoraphobia so that she could be _better_ -

Not wanting to hurt but help and knowing that was the worst idea ever. it would hurt her. It was an awful idea. He’d read the studies and the act of ‘flooding’ did not even work. Didn’t get rid of the idea, thought. 

Colin wanted Dragon to be happier, able to do what she wanted without her fears holding her back.)

Colin tapped the desk again, feeling the build-up of frustration and unable to do anything about it. 

Abruptly, he stood, dropping the pen on the desk and leaving the chair half in the open. He plucked the spare visor from its stand, slipping it on and making sure it was locked into place. It was enough of a mask he knew his identity was secure if anything happened, and he went to leave. Colin paused, backtracked and grabbed a bag and the gift from Chevalier he’d forgotten to take to his civilian home. The lights automatically clicked off as soon as he left the threshold. 

Colin wasn’t going to go far. The Rig didn’t have anything he wanted at this time of night. It was always lit up for safety, but even that didn’t take away from the darkness. He couldn’t see out of the windows into the black night. Just down the hallway Colin took a left instead of his usual right. 

It was easy enough to shoulder the door open and step outside. Even if he was only wearing a jacket it was warm enough like this, and he closed the door behind him. The night was dark, with the moon spilling out onto the water and the escaping light from inside the Rig to see by. Five steps from the door there was a nook with something big enough to sit on. The metal radiated cold through his clothes and automatically he shivered. Colin sighed. 

The bag was opened with one hand as the was rubbed across his face - easy enough to do - and in the dim light he cracked the bottle lid open. While he wasn’t the bigger fan of bourbon - or alcohol in general - it would do for now. The glass still in the bag got a long glance, but eventually he shook his head. Who here would judge him from drinking out the bottle?

It smelt strong when he lifted it up to his noise. Strong enough that he could barely smell the water over it, and it tasted strong too. Alcohol on the tongue always stung a bit. 

How long had he been here, charging at the waves, ready to make a difference? At least a decade. Of being a hero, of being _Armsmaster_ , of running against the tide and wading into the ocean. At first he walked forward, but every step it pushed him back, every inch was harder. Now - could he really say he’d been improving? There was more work to do and fewer benefits for doing it. More and more villains. No end to anything. 

He could not win against Lung, not like this. He could not win against Kaiser. The rest of the capes had back up or broke out, or sneaky enough to always get away. What was the point in a jail if it didn’t work? What was the point of trying to be a responsible hero and keep people in jail _if it didn’t work_?

He took a deep swallow of the drink and sighed. It was true, however unfortunate, that he had survived longer than a lot of capes. He was head of Protectorate ENE. He was well known. Armsmaster had hit the glass ceiling and there was no up. Would it have been better if he wasn’t picked? Miss Militia - because of course it would be her - becoming the head instead of him and he could have been promoted somewhere else, somewhere bigger?

Or would it have been delaying the inevitable? That there _was_ no up. 

The bottle was noticeably emptier than when he started. Drinking alone wasn’t his thing, not really. And yet - There was no one he could drink with. Not him, with his lack of connections and even with the ones he did have, well, they were as busy as him. Chevalier didn’t need a call from him like this. 

Dragon wasn’t talking with him still. He’d actually, truly pissed her off this time, and yet she didn’t leave until he dismissed her feelings on the matter. Again. What he did went _over his head_ and it was starting to burn that he just _couldn’t_ socialise like - normal people. He didn’t know what he did, not that that made it any better. 

Colin welcomed the fuzzy, loose feeling of the alcohol and screwed the top back onto the bottle. He tucked it back into his bag and breathed the cold night air. The waves were loud in the quiet. 

Goddamn it all, he was going to bed. Maybe that would miracle up a solution.


End file.
